Lie Here Charmed
by caffeinekitty
Summary: Izaya likes to play afterwards.


_Written for the KinkBingo challenge on Dreamwidth**  
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**Title :** Lie Here Charmed  
><strong>Prompt :<strong> possession/marking (warnings for knifeplay)  
><strong>Rating :<strong> R  
><strong>Pairings :<strong> Izaya/Shizuo 

_The following story contains M/M - please don't read if that's not your thing. If it is, enjoy! ;)_

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><p><span>Lie Here Charmed<span>

Izaya likes to play afterwards.

By then, Shizuo's usually too wrung out, too blissed out to care; he doesn't know that he'd stop it if he could. He deserves to be punished for this. Deserves to pay, to hurt, to bleed for wanting this, needing this as much as he does. For wanting and needing someone who hates him. Someone he hates.

Even while they're fucking – it's still too much of a fight to call it sex – he doesn't like Izaya all that much. He loves the sweat-slick body tangling around his like a vine. He loves hot breath against his ear, clever fingers on his skin. He loves the way it feels to come for someone who _already _thinks he's a monster, to lose control to someone who knows how to take it, to fall apart on someone who couldn't possibly think any less of him if he tried. He loves not having to pretend to be something he's not, even as he hates all the things he can never be.

But he still doesn't like Izaya. It's okay; Izaya doesn't like him, either. Never has. Not even now, as he leans over the side of the bed to untangle his discarded coat from the knot of their clothes, smiling like a child at the knife he withdraws from the pocket.

Not even when he laves a hot, wet tongue against Shizuo's bicep, nipping at the muscle. Preparing his canvas with saliva and sensation until it's ready for him.

He thinks Izaya marked him, singled him out, from the first moment they met. The first scar, the one all but faded across his chest now, that just sealed the deal. All the others, in various stages of healing and always, _always_ in places he can cover up easily, are just extraneous luxuries.

No… maybe not that. He doesn't think he'd call them unnecessary. Sometimes it's good to have a reminder of all his mistakes. It's just a shame Izaya didn't start this little habit from the very first time they fucked; he's missing a few notches on the proverbial bedpost, he thinks. Missing a few notations and mementos etched into his skin.

He shivers at the first touch of the sharp blade. It fits, he's always figured, that a sharp-edged, cruel weapon would wield much the same. Never impersonal though, much as Izaya would resent that accusation. The flea wouldn't get off on wounding from a distance. He needs to be there, caught up in the carnage up close, leeching it all in. That just makes Shizuo even more of a coward, he supposes; there's an infinite distance between holding a knife at someone's throat, and throwing things at them from afar. But then, Izaya likes to see the harm he does.

He flinched the first time. Snarled and railed against it. That's the only scar that's jagged, and he knows that if he'd just accepted the truth then, it would be as clear and precise as the others. For some reason, it's remained Izaya's favourite. It's the one he always goes to first the moment they're undressed, licking and nipping and biting until the white lines are stark against flushed red. Because it reminds him of Shizuo's failure, Shizuo's weakness, probably. Reminds him of the day he won.

The blood trickles down to the sheets, seeping into the dark blue cotton. He's given up on white; even bleaching doesn't get the blood out once it's started to dry, and it's fucking embarrassing when he goes to do his laundry. Later, when Izaya's gone, he'll change the sheets again, run his fingers over the sticky, drying stains, and feel each tiny nick and cut on his skin throb. He'll remember the way it felt when Izaya dragged the blade in curves and arc under his skin, remember the look of concentration in those rust coloured eyes. He'll stare at the mattress as he shakes out a new set of bed linen, and think the day he tosses it out, some poor idiot's gonna think someone was murdered on it.

Nah. The only thing that ever died on this bed was whatever dumb pride he might've possessed, once. That was dead and buried the night he became a possession himself. He doesn't miss it much; he tells himself he feels freer without it shackling him down.

He still does a passable job out there of pretending it still exists. It helps that none of this seems to have any effect on his anger. He still feels the rage, burning like sharp white-hot pinpricks of light in his head every time someone pisses him off. Still feels the shame and regret slamming him in the gut afterwards. Still works, still smokes, still keeps his distance from the rest of humanity because he knows he'd only hurt someone if he got too close.

It's for the best. If anyone else saw him naked, saw the intricate latticework on his skin, the one that tells the story of weakness and desperation and a longing to be normal, to be human, that he thinks Izaya _gets_ even while he laughs mockingly every time Shizuo brings it up, it'd be a problem.

It's already a problem. It's already a problem that even without a single mark, he knows he belongs to this man. Knows that however hard he fought, it was always going to come down to this.

Monsters don't love other monsters. Monsters don't belong with humans.

It never hurts much. He wishes it would. But whether it's adrenaline or the residual high of coming so fucking hard, he doesn't know, just that after the first couple of cuts, everything fades away. It's not because Izaya's gentle. Sometimes, if it's really quiet, he thinks he can hear his skin parting under the edge of the knife. Tonight, all he can hear is the soft rhythm of Izaya's breathing and the thump of his own heart.

Izaya drags his tongue across the neat, crimson lines that make up the characters of his name, like a tattooist cleaning away the excess ink to see the beautiful art underneath. And it will be, tomorrow, when he washes off the dried blood to see the mark of ownership traced in red. The tip of his tongue digs into one cut, one that feels deeper than the others, and Shizuo feels the flea shudder against him at the taste of the blood he coaxes from the wound.

The sting makes him smile, a shiver running down his back. He hears Izaya laugh quietly, chasing it down his spine with one bloodied fingertip.

One day, he thinks maybe Izaya won't draw the knife away when he's satisfied with his work. One day, he'll just keep cutting and scratching and slashing. Shizuo likes to think he might come to his senses then, that he might fight, might stop it.

He supposes he'll find out when it happens.


End file.
